As he approaches me with his signature grin, I can’t help but take him in, his long legs closing the distance between us. He’s wearing a thin ivory sweater with the sleeves pushed up that makes his dark features pop, a pair of worn-looking jeans that intimately hug his legs, and trendy brown boots that complete the look perfectly.
Cheese and crackers, I forgot how handsome he is in person. The photos online are incredible, but the real deal feels amplified by a thousand.
“Hello, Meg,” he says, coming to a stop in front of me. I’m hit with sandalwood and citrus, and it smells so good. He slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and his deep brown eyes sparkle as they peruse me from head to toe then land back on my face. I can feel heat climbing into my cheeks, and I remind myself that we are just friends—no matter how good-looking he is, no matter how attractive those dimples are, and definitely no matter how well he’s executing the smoldering look. We are just friends, and thanks to the promises I made to myself years ago, we will only ever be friends.
“Jack.” I smile back, the moment feeling a little surreal. This is the guy I’ve been bantering with online for months, almost like a pen pal, and now here he is, standing in front of me.
“Come here,” he all but demands, closing the last bit of distance between us then wrapping me in his arms. His smell intensifies as it floats around me, and I pick up scents of warm dryer sheets, a sporty-spicy body wash, and comfort . . . pure comfort. My eyes drift shut as I lean into him, returning the hug, and ask, “What? Are we friends now?”
“Best friends,” he deadpans.
“Ha, since when?” I ask, wishing I could stop time and just stay here longer than past the moment it becomes awkward.
He chuckles, and the vibrations under my cheek have me tightening my embrace just a little bit. “Since the moment you met me.”
“Is that so?” I’m now grinning along with him.
“Yep, I decided,” he states, pulling back.
“What about our current best friends?” I pop an eyebrow up.
“They won’t mind. You and me—it’s brilliant.”
How do I answer that? And do I even want to?
He remains silent for a moment, his eyes drifting over my face like he’s trying to memorize it, and then he asks, “How was the drive?”
“Easy, relaxing.” I reluctantly pull away from him and take a step back to create some space. “I’m usually up early in the mornings because of the restaurant, so this was nothing.”
“Well, that’s good.” His hand drags down my arm and lingers at my wrist before he finally breaks the contact between us.
“Will you help me bring some things in? My car is just out front.” I point my thumb over my shoulder.
“If you mean help you bring in all the food, that’s a definite yes.” He smiles, and I exhale at the sight of it.
Together we turn and walk back toward the tasting room, through the foyer, and out the front door. The cool air clears some of the Jack-induced fog in my brain, and I glance over at him. Even with my heels on, he’s so much taller than I am, and I realize I like it. I like it a lot.
“How was the flight?” I ask as we head toward my car. My feet wobble a little as my heels stick in the gravel, and he reaches for my elbow.
“Short. It didn’t take me hardly any time at all once I landed in Atlanta.”
His hand is warm, and I have the odd sensation of wanting him to reach for my hand and slip his fingers through mine. I don’t remember the last time I held a guy’s hand, but with him I think it would be nice.
“That’s good. I’m surprised Bryan didn’t come with you.”
He looks over at me and his eyes brighten as he smiles. “Not this time. He’s too busy driving to Lexi’s today.”
“What?” I stop and turn to stare at him. Lexi never mentioned him coming over for the holiday, so I don’t think she knows.
“Yep. Poor guy’s whipped and couldn’t stay away.” He says this as if it isn’t a world-changing revelation.
“I don’t think she knows,” I say, more to myself than him, but he shrugs anyway.
“Well, she’s about to.”
A breeze blows by and ruffles the top of his hair. The sides are kept short, but it gradually transitions to being longer on the top. It’s styled and looks perfect with his face.
“Huh.”
Moving again, I walk to the trunk and pop it open, and Jack groans next to me.
“Damn, how did you drive all the way here with these delicious smells swirling around the car? I would have pulled over, found a fork somewhere, and dived in.”
His eyes are scanning over the dishes and the box of uncooked food. After we closed yesterday afternoon, I decided to get a head start and went ahead and made a butternut bisque soup, mashed potatoes, and a few desserts.
“And that’s the difference between you and me—I have self-control.” I grin at him, and he groans again.
From the entryway, a squeal pierces the air as Shelby sprints down the front steps toward us and throws herself into my arms.
“Oh my God, I’m so happy you could make it. I was practically holding my breath in fear thinking something would happen and Taylor would back out.”
“Back out? No way. Worst-case scenario, I closed the restaurant tomorrow. I wasn’t missing this for the world. Life is short.”
She pulls back and looks at me lovingly. “Yes, it is.”
“Ladies, as heartwarming as this is, there is food in this car, and I need to be fed.”
We both turn to look at Jack. There’s a small crease between his brows, and his gaze bounces back and forth between the two of us as if we’re preventing him from being somewhere important.
“Oh my God. Really?” One hand lands on my hip, and I glare at him.
He looks at Shelby and me, and then his signature smirk drops into place. “You said you would cook for me. That makes you my new best friend, as stated earlier, and you must take care of me.”
“What? You’re delusional. You decided we were best friends, not me. Keep it up and you’ll be lucky if I even give you any leftovers.” I try to say this seriously, but as he’s now grinning at me, I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face, too.
Beside me, Shelby looks at the two of us, and I can see the questions forming in her eyes. I don’t have any answers for her, other than the obvious—that we’re just friends.
“Ugh. Would you just stop,” I say to him, now fully grinning myself.
“I’m not doing anything.” His happy expression forces those butterflies to return and dance around.
“You are, and you’re the one who’s just standing here. For someone who wants food so bad, you could be halfway to the kitchen with those bags by now.”
He looks at the bags, realization dawning on him, and he says, “You’re right.”
“Say it again.” I lift my chin a little higher and cock one eyebrow.
He smirks, shakes his head incredulously, and then grabs the bags and heads back across the drive, up the steps, and into the house, leaving Shelby and me just standing there. I wouldn’t be female if I didn’t appreciate the way those jeans fit across his backside, and boy do they fit nicely.
“What was that?” Shelby asks, turning to face me.
I can’t look at her, so I say, “Nothing,” reach into the car, grab my overnight bag, and slam the trunk shut.
Being back in the kitchen with Shelby, us working side by side while laughing, drinking iced coffee, and catching up—so far this is the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time. It reminds me of how we used to be years ago, when we were just starting and all of our time revolved around being in the kitchen. Yes, mine still does, but life is different now, and we’re rarely together.
Occasionally, throughout the morning, Zach pops his head in to smile at Shelby and give her a kiss. Michelle offers to help, but she ultimately slips out as she knows we need this time together, and Zach’s parents, who have just gotten back from yet a
nother European vacation, choose to sleep in, having requested they be told when it’s time to eat. Retirement is suiting them well. As for Jack, he’s steered clear, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing.
Looking across the kitchen, I smile as, dish by dish, the meal slowly comes together: roasted turkey with gravy; lemon-glazed honey carrots; roasted sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and apples; a jellied cranberry sauce; balsamic-glazed green beans; oyster stuffing; and a few others. There will be leftovers for days, but to me that’s the sign of a perfect holiday meal, and I’d always rather have too much than too little.
People often assume cooking is my passion, but it’s not; it’s sharing. When you share, that’s when the magic is created. After all, food is love, and more memories than not are made around the table. There have been many days when I’ve stood and stared out the kitchen door window to the dining room of OBA. Couples old and young, families, friends, laughter, and occasionally tears—it all happens as the seconds of time and life tick by, and it all happens with my food in front of them. I love giving these moments, no matter how small they might be.
“Well, don’t the two of you just look so cute in your matching aprons.” Jack’s deep voice echoes across the room, pulling me from my thoughts.
He’s wandered into the kitchen, and I do a double take because I keep being struck by how handsome he is. He walks right up behind me and looks over my shoulder to see what I’m making. The closeness, his heat, his essence—it engulfs me, and I’m unable to maintain control over myself, my heart rate picking up.
If I just leaned back a little bit, I would be lying against him . . .
Wait!
No.
Seriously, why do I keep reacting to him like this?
Ugh.
Friends.
Just friends.
Again, I can feel Shelby’s eyes on us. Jack doesn’t seem to notice or to care, so dismissing the thoughts I just had, I take one from his playbook and decide I’m not going to either. Leaning over, he sticks his finger into the mashed potatoes, brings it to his mouth, and then licks it clean.
“Did he just do what I think he did?” Shelby asks.
“Sure looks like he did.” Both of us have stopped what we are doing, she’s turned to face him, and I turn to glare up at him.
“What? I wanted to taste it!” he declares innocently, licking his lips and grinning. Dark eyelashes swoop down over his eyes. From this angle, they look even longer than normal and result in him looking even prettier than before.
“Haven’t you heard of a spoon? That was gross. Everyone here is going to eat these potatoes, and now you’ve contaminated them with your dirty digits,” I scold.
“My hands aren’t dirty. See?” He holds them up, and I’m momentarily awestruck by how large they are.
“Hands. Stay. Out. Of. The. Food,” Shelby tells him.
He takes a step back and throws them up a little higher like he surrenders.
“Fine, no more finger-sticking.” His eyes sparkle a moment later as he realizes what he’s said, and he smirks at me while I shake my head.
Next thing, he picks up my iced coffee and takes a sip of it. His face scrunches up, and inwardly I relish already knowing he doesn’t like coffee. He sets the glass back down and shakes his head. “That is not good.”
Shelby laughs next to me. “Yes, it is. You’re just being a menace, so you deserved that.”
“I’m not being a menace, I just wanted to come in here and see what y’all are up to.” His eyes zero in on the completed dishes and widen just a bit.
“You know what we’re up to. Are you offering to help?” I ask him.
“Help?” He looks back at me and then around the kitchen at the mess we’ve made. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, frowning, and of course I notice how the sunlight pouring into the kitchen illuminates him. “I can help if you need me to, but I’m not sure what I would do.”
I glance at Shelby, and we both bust out laughing. His obvious discomfort is cute, but there’s no way we are actually letting him help us.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got this,” she says.
Instant relief floods his face as he looks at the two of us. “Okay, but I would have. Seriously, though, what’s up with the matchy-matchy?” He waves back and forth between us, and I look down to see what he’s talking about. Shelby and I are wearing matching Thanksgiving aprons I happened across in a boutique one day while walking through the Battery.
“Aprons are kind of our thing,” I tell him, smoothing mine down.
It started with my grandmother. Sure, I had aprons growing up, but when I went off to culinary school, my grandmother gave me hers. It’s green and white and has sort of become my good luck apron. I wear it when I’m working on a new dish, or just feeling nostalgic for her. She used to love to tell me an apron is just a cape tied on backward, and I’ve never forgotten it.
After that one, Shelby and I started collecting really cute ones from places we’d travel to, pretty ones we’d see in stores, and holiday ones. When we worked together, all of them hung on a single wrought iron coat rack we repurposed at the restaurant, and now Shelby has her own here in the winery kitchen. I point toward it and his gaze follows, spotting it in the corner, and then he looks back at me.
“Huh,” he says, dropping his eyes and staring at the fall leaves and pumpkins across my chest.
Instantly, the back of my hand smacks his stomach—his flat, hard stomach.
“Ow! What was that for?” he howls, rubbing the offended area.
“You know what. Eyes up here.” With two fingers, I point from my eyes to his.
“You’re the meanest best friend I’ve ever had.” He frowns. Then, whipping out his phone, he puts it in selfie mode and takes a picture of him and me before I can ask what he’s doing. As a parting shot, he flashes us a devilish grin, sticks his finger back in the bowl, and swirls it around before walking out the door.
“Tell me he did not just do that,” Shelby says in horror.
“I think he did.” I try to hide the grin that follows him, but I just can’t.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes in my back pocket with a new notification. Jack posted the photo of us in the kitchen, tagged me, and added the sweetest caption wishing everyone a happy Thanksgiving, thanking all of his followers, and expressing gratitude. Then I reach the end where he says he’s also thankful for his best friend’s pumpkins, and heat radiates up my neck and across my face.
I’m going to kill him.
At one o’clock, we sit down to eat. The table is decorated with bursts of fall in orange, yellow, and brown. The candles are lit, music is playing in the background, and the wine is poured. Food is steaming and spread out from one end to the other, and even I can’t stop my mouth from watering. It is the perfect feast fit for my friends.
“Shelby, this turkey is delicious. You did a great job on it,” I tell her as I take another bite. Murmurs go up around the table, everyone busy eating instead of talking.
“It’s the turkey brine. Zach’s mom gave me the recipe.” She winks at Mrs. Wolff. “She assured me it would be juicy and everyone would love it. She wasn’t wrong.”
“The recipe was my mother’s, and she handed it down to me. I’m happy you like it. We can keep it going year after year for Thanksgiving.”
“Sounds good to me. Taste of my childhood right here,” Zach says, his mouth full.
I look over at Jack’s plate—he’s sitting next to me—and it’s overflowing. A chuckle escapes me, and he glances in my direction.
“What?” he asks, chewing and smiling at the same time.
“Nothing.” I shake my head then flick my eyes down to his plate, back to his face.
“I like food,” he declares, as if that should explain everything.
“We can tell,” Zach says. Laughter breaks out around the table.
Keeping his eyes on me, he says, very matter-of-factly, “If you cook it, I will eat it.”
>
My cheeks heat, and I know they’ve tinged pink. There’s not a whole lot anyone can say that will make me happier than this. A quote I once read from Julia Child comes to mind: “People who love to eat are the best people.” Maybe Jack is best friend material after all.
“You have to tell us about this month’s date,” Michelle says, putting her fork down and taking a sip of wine. “We saw you post about the meal, well, dessert of the month, pineapple fruitcake.”
I can’t help but groan. My friends have enjoyed hearing about my monthly dating escapades this last year.
“It didn’t take y’all long to ask. I was wondering when it would be brought up.” I dip the tip of my spoon into the gravy and decide it would be better with more pepper.
“This month’s date?” Jack asks as I reach over him for it instead of asking him to pass it.
“She made a resolution to go out with a different person every month this year, and last week was November’s.” Kyle grins; he’s Michelle’s boyfriend, and he also works here at the winery.
“Why?” Jack turns to look at me closely as I season the gravy and put the pepper down.
“Because, people are interesting and life is short. You never know who you’re going to meet, or what you’ll learn. Who knows, maybe next month I’ll meet my new best friend.” I cut a bite of turkey and dip it in the gravy before bringing it to my mouth. I give him a big tight-lipped smile, and he frowns.
“That position is not available.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” Shelby chimes in from across the table, and the two of them glare at each other.
I finish chewing the bite and swallow. “I should have known the night was going to be a disaster the minute Taylor swung the kitchen door open and I saw him. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the NASA logo, only under it was the tagline Never A Straight Answer. Pineapple fruitcake was served on the Apollo 11.”
The guys around the table chuckle.
“This story just got better already,” Zach’s dad says cheerfully.
“Yeah, have you ever heard of modern flat-Earthers?” Everyone shakes their head no. “Apparently, there’s a whole society out there who believes the Earth is flat.”
Lessons in Lemonade Page 5
